


Oathkeeping

by SassafrassRex (Serbajean)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Actually not yet, And yell louder than you can, Brief pseudo-casual reference to the Paladins (slowly) turning into horrible people, But give me time, Crack Fic, Explicit Language, Female pronouns for Pidge, Humor, Itty-bitty bit of violence, Not actually that humorous in places, Pidge would dance the haka if prompted, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Shiro listens to Infected Mushroom, Sometimes just a little angsty, THis isn't that fic, Team Dynamics, cracky crack, duh - Freeform, references everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 01:28:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8183731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serbajean/pseuds/SassafrassRex
Summary: Dirt on your head. My dick in your mother’s rib-cage. Forgotten turtle’s egg. Wear a green hat. Fuck your second uncle.(And those are just from Earth).Shiro didn’t always have an Altean babelfish. But he figured it out eventually.ORSport and violence and violence for sport are the universal languages.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, my last fic was preeeeetty dark. This one is pretty light. But not fluffy. Not fluffy at all. Cracky.  
> And, since it takes place smack dab in the middle of the giant AU still sitting half-finished on my desktop, some stuff may not make complete sense (I have mountains of that half-finished stuff, so what do I do? Start something from scratch because of course). Added explanations to try to smooth it out. Then un-added those explanations. Because that’s world-building right? You don’t explain it, you drop context clues and readers build it. Some explanations kind of had to be there, because plot (four-letter word!) But if you see a weird reference... Crap, I forgot how to type the shrug emoji. \\_( ... whatever.  
> Please don’t kick me out of the fandom. T_T  
> Oh, and shout-out to the Persians, for inspiring this. And for having the best curses (and other -isms) in all of ever.

 

 

They really needed to be somewhere else right now. The open vents were still pouring gas into the room, and Pidge could see the beginnings of a haze forming on the air beyond her facemask. That shit was volatile. Every time Lance or Hunk made a shot, they took an ever-climbing risk of blowing their own hands off.

They needed to leave, but that was tough to do while still knee-deep in sentries. Paranoia gripped her tight, while she dropped drone after drone, waiting for the dreaded moment when the air finally caught fire. She didn’t want to be here at all. They  _needed_  to leave, but there were too many still in the way. They were mowing them down fast, but every second they lingered here was hours too long.

And then, all at once,

“Look out!”

“Fuck, get d-”

“Keith,  _move!”_

None of them was fast enough. Even  _Keith_  wasn’t quite fast enough. A plasma bolt had been aimed right at the back of his head (so, she guessed, it could have been worse). It passed by so close that the heat of it burned a black trail into the side of his helmet. He lurched away, and in that split second of movement, a heavy metal fist  _slammed_  into his head and put him flat on the floor.

For just an instant, the sight of it was too incongruous. Too wrong. It left Pidge so confused she nearly took a fist to the face, herself.

Keith was still surrounded by drones. They all were.  _She_  was surrounded, she couldn’t get to him. But Shiro wasn’t. Not anymore (no, he was just surrounded by pieces). Between one blink and the next, he was beside Keith, taking drones apart. Numbers didn’t seem to mean much to Shiro right then;  _too many_  didn’t mean much either. Hunk joined him, and neither moved more than two feet away from Keith for the rest of that fight.

And of course, they did win. As it turned out, there weren’t too many after all, even with Lance and Hunk semi-handicapped and Keith downed for the end of it.

But with the last of them dropping, Shiro let out a growl and sprang up. Turning fast, Pidge saw the retreating back of a Galra, and  _knew_  in a second that it was that  _bastard_ who’d been hiding up on the sidelines, taking potshots at them from the beginning. The one who tried to snipe Keith, she  _knew_ he was.

Now he was running (couldn’t let him. Couldn’t let him do that, he knew what they stole. And he fucking  _shot_  one of her teammates). He was running fast, up on a raised catwalk against the far wall at the edge of the room. And he had a headstart. But that didn’t keep Pidge and Shiro from leaping at the wall to haul themselves straight up after him.

Still, he would have gotten away easily. But in a satisfying feat of vengeance best served cold, Lance shot him in the back. Non-lethal, but it was the best thing she’d seen today, and it bought them the time to close the distance.

Shiro may have been their traceur, but Pidge had been practicing. She found handholds and footholds just fine, thannkyouverymuch ( _ledge, pipe, railing, strut, pipe, support, pipe, crevice, divot, hell yeah, Pidge the squirrel!)_ and wasn’t (too far) behind him, when Shiro flung himself up and over the last railing.

But Shiro was the faster runner (she swore she’d hit a growthspurt one of these days), and apparently didn’t feel like sharing. Their would-be sniper was moaning and crawling along at an admirable clip, but Shiro was on him in seconds, hauling him up to jam his back against the railing. Mask retracting, Shiro leaned in close to him, just long enough to hiss a quick string of strange words, right in his face. Pidge didn’t recognize them, but the Galra’s eyes went wide and round and then Shiro ran him through

Pidge gasped. It startled her but she wasn’t sure why. Hadn’t she planned to kill him, too? Staring open-mouthed, she noticed an incongruity—he wasn’t wearing armor. She didn’t recognize the dark uniform, but no, he wasn’t a soldier at all. Technician, maybe? What had he even been doing here?

Shiro’s mask slid back into place. He pulled his glowing hand back and dumped the body, to land with a thud.

Pidge tried to catch her breath. The sound of her panting, the sound of Shiro panting, the high thrum of her pulse in her head; it all sounded loud and unseemly. Muffling everything else, like she was very far away, as she unstuck her feet from the floor. Shiro let her edge a few steps closer, until she stood next to him. Her movements were cautious, strangely unsure. Of herself, and—just right then, just for that moment—maybe a little leery of him also. That was quite a thing he just did.

She waited for a couple seconds, until she heard him pull his own breathing back under control. Then she smiled, reaching up to awkwardly pat him on the arm. It was probably too hard, more like she was slapping him, fingers splayed out and stick-stiff. Why was she feeling so weird?

He held still for it. Then he dropped a big hand on her shoulder and steered her around, and then they were leaving.

Climbing down took longer than it should have ( _damnit Pidge; better keep practicing_ ). They were high enough up that even Shiro wasn’t comfortable with just leaping off the edge and rolling out of it ( _hah, so there_ ). Unless of course, that was just for her benefit (and  _damnitall_  if it was). And the gas still slowly filling the room made things too volatile to use the jetpacks, unless of course, they  _wanted_ to be roasted in their armor.

Thinking about it—Pidge jumped the last several feet, rolling, safely back on the floor—she’d have to give Lance shit about that later. It was risky for him to take that last shot like he did. She’d give him  _such_  shit (right after she gave him a pat on the back for it).

She had her head back on straight, the weird feeling from before was gone. Jogging towards their long-awaited exit, she glanced back over her shoulder _…_  He wasn’t a proper sniper. He wasn’t even a soldier. Just some idiot who’d  _been_  there. Been there at the same time they were. He’d probably just grabbed the nearest gun and made do. Now, he was a smeared heap on the floor.

Maybe that should have bothered her, but she really just wanted to get moving.

Hunk had Keith over his shoulders and they all made it out safe, Lance on point, Shiro covering retreat.

* * *

It was always a little awkward afterwards, whenever anyone got hurt enough to need a pod. Awkward, but on its way to becoming much too routine. Keith  _might_  have been alright without it, but Shiro had a rule about head injuries. The rule went something like “head trauma + still-unfinished brains = not to be fucked with.” That rule went double for head trauma with LOC.

They were just sitting down to dinner, post-shower,  _post_ -post-op debrief, post-getting Keith settled. But without even really discussing it, they all gathered up their meal and headed back over to the infirmary.

Sprawled on the steps with their various tasteless foodstuffs (Hunk couldn’t be expected to cook _every_ day), they breathed a little easier. It went without mention that everyone felt more comfortable with eyes on Keith, able to confirm for themselves that the pod was doing its work.

He looked content enough. His breathing wasn’t weird, as determined by Pidge (the observation had become her tradition, whenever the pods were in use).

“So,” she chirped, pulling Shiro’s eyes away from Keith’s monitor, “what did you say to that guy today?”

“Hmm?” The question earned her a couple confused looks from Hunk and Lance.

Shiro felt a bit confused himself. What guy?

Oh. That guy.

“What guy?” piped Lance.

Pidge’s grin was a little bloodthirsty. “That last Galra? You shot him? Which by the way, badass, but also dumbass. Well, Shiro said something to him and I think it was nasty. Guy looked like he pissed himself a little before he died.” Maybe a little more than a little bloodthirsty.

Shiro suppressed a sigh, heading over to join the others on the steps. And that was _maybe_  why (though he didn’t _like_  to think about it and he already _had_  thought about it a thousand times) she really probably-maybe was a  _little_  too young to be out here, doing this.

Still a bit too impressionable. Moldable (but then, they’d all be monsters before this was over and that was just the truth and it was a truth he’d have to address, someday… Some day that wasn’t today). Pidge was already kind of shit at empathy, it wasn’t hard to see, though it was plenty hard to watch.

He hoped she didn’t get too much worse before they theoretically found her family. Shiro wanted there to be at least one Holt he hadn’t failed.

He’d tried to ask the Lions _, why Pidge?_  Pidge was fifteen, what was she doing here? Green wouldn’t tell him, and the Black couldn’t really say either. Who recruits a fifteen-year-old? Well, actually Shiro did. Didn’t he? That time she’d nearly walked out, he’d been arguing hard for her to stay. He hadn’t wanted her off on her own. If Green was in the wrong, then surely Shiro was too. But still, who recruits a fifteen-year-old? Or even a couple of—oh, hey wait. Birthday coming up?

Shiro had since forgotten how mood whiplash was supposed to work and  _yes_ , he recalled in fact there  _was_  a birthday inbound. He made a mental note to confer with Coran and Allura, and put something together.

Enough birthdays, and no one would be too young for this anymore (too young, much too young to be offered up and ruinedfor the sake of a war, and Shiro knew—he  _knew—_ how they were already slipping).  But he’d address it later. Some other day. It was already much too little, much too late, so what did it matter if Shiro procrastinated? This team was already good and well dug-in. 

Shiro was roused from his tired contemplation of life’s futility, when he finally noticed Hunk side-eying him. Side-eying him in a manner most accusing.

Oh right, cussing out a dying man. That was a thing Shiro had done today. 

Hunk lifted a single unimpressed eyebrow, “Classy.”

And Shiro winced a little bit. Yeah. Maybe it hadn’t been his finest moment.

He wished he could say he didn’t know what came over him. And he probably wasn’t as sorry as he was supposed to be (not yet; give it a little time to settle. When he next woke up, it would be there. And the next night, when he laid down. And the next. But then, see how long, before necessity rendered it one more drop in an ocean).

Pidge pressed at it, quite unconcerned, “Well, classy or no, for whatever reason, it didn’t translate.” That got Hunk and Lance interested, too. Three pairs of eyes questioned.

Shiro thought for a moment and shrugged. His right shoulder gave a sharp twinge at the motion. “Take it up with the babelfish.” Moving gingerly, he leaned back onto the steps, elbow hitched up by Lance’s foot. It had been a long day, he’d bet everyone was pretty sore.

“Well, what’d it mean?” Not too sore to press a question, though. 

“It probably won’t make a lot of sense to you.” But that just cued impatient hand-waving. Oh well.

“Okay.  Well.  That one,” he swallowed, “was actually, ‘ _They’ll sing of you_.’  Or uh, ‘ _There’s a song for you_.’” He paused for a moment, chewing his lip in consideration, “You know, with maybe a few extra adjectives tacked on.” Adjectives that hadn’t  _really_  been necessary, but Shiro added them anyway.

The paladins looked skeptical. There even came a deadpan, “Pull the other one,” from Lance.

“Nope.” Shiro chuckled, shaking his head. “Nu-uh, that’s what that one means.” That, along with about a million miles of unspoken cultural context.

“Significance?” Pidge was in danger of losing that eyebrow if she raised it any higher. 

“It’s—” He kneaded at the pain behind his shoulder, trying to figure out a proper explanation. “Most Galra music—and yes, they have it—it usually doesn’t have words, it’s—” he waved his free hand stupidly. “It’s vocalizations, so it is singing, I guess. But like… birds do?”  Birds?  No, that was stupid. Maybe less birds, more screechy-rumbling bear-harpies. “It’s just noise. I mean, it’s  _intricate_  noise… But no words.” He wasn’t explaining this very well. Like an orchestra?

“And actually, I think they could keep it up while talking at the same time, so I’m not sure it even really counts as singing.” Absently, Shiro tapped his foot on the floor. Had he ever figured out how that was done? Did they have a second palate or something, or maybe—

He was getting sidetracked, wasn’t he? Must be tired.

Despite his better efforts, the hymns welled up in his head.

There was always singing at the arena. After all, it was a  _festive_  place, wasn’t it? Bring your offspring, watch grisly death, join your neighbors in the  _Song of Gleeful Hunger_  (he’d heard that one every single day). The Galra pastime, right? Shiro could feel his mood ticking downwards. Cheer your favorite, place a bet. There was  _Gleeful Hunger_ , but there was also  _Bright Loyalty,_  and dozens of others, including a not-at-all-ironic  _Song of Long Life_ , for whenever someone earned an execution.

Shiro only remembered hearing that one twice, and both instances were still only semi-complete in his head and he wasn’t going to think of them anyway because that was a  _bad_  idea and maybe he had lots of bad ideas but conscious suppression was the mature choice here right? and this was him moving along and  _not thinking_  about them he wouldn’t think—

Oh,  _Right-Thought_. That was another one. He remembered that one had practically been an anthem. And there were plenty of others he was probably forgetting. There was probably a Song of “That gooey feeling you get when people remember your birthday.” Hatch day. Budding day. Whatever the Galra did.  And there might be a hymn for “When the third motherfucker in under two minutes makes a grab at your fucking food, and fuck  _all_  you assholes, I’ll fight you right here!”

If there wasn’t, then Shiro could probably write that second one. He remembered well enough.

How had they all kept time? He remembered _thousands_ of voices orchestrated together (yes,  _orchestra_ was probably the best way to put it). Heavy, crushing music, coming from everyone in attendance.

Everyone save for one frantic voice, sounding out against—wait, waitwaitwait. What? Shiro tried to grasp that memory but it darted away. Had that happened, whose voice—

“Shiro?” 

From the expressions surrounding him, he’d been quiet for too long. 

“Sorry. Just thinking.” And he was. No problem, no flashback, here. Just thinking. Shiro dug his fingertips into the back of his neck, wishing and waiting for something to give way and unknot.

Back when he’d first started remembering the arena, Shiro had gone after it with a will. He ought to have known better, but he’d done it anyway. He’d hated wondering.

Safe(-ish; enough) in his own room, he’d revisited everything he could think of. Every ugly moment that cued off every next ugly moment. He thought about it, at all hours of the night, with his every soft blue light lit. And surrounded by every alarm, bell, chime, and sweet-smelling thing—or pungent-smelling or just ‘not-prison-smelling’—that he could get his hands on. Every not-Galra item that might hopefully keep from getting too lost.

And many evenings of vomit, panic, and a few fucking _tears_ later, Shiro could think about it and  _just_ be thinking about it.

Some of it, anyway.

Sometimes.

Kind of.

(No, he couldn’t.)

Even so, he knew most of it was still missing.

He tried to be subtle as he gave his head a shake.  _Stop it._ No flashing back, no pondering. No meandering through half-remembered bullshit. Conversation. This was a _conversation_ , not others waiting around while he dicked around in his own head.

He hadn’t  _thought_ he was that tired. But that was the second? third? time he’d had to be dragged back on topic. “Right, most singing doesn’t have words. But the exception of course”— Shiro heard Lance sniff, “ _Oh, of course_ ,” the brat— “is the druids.”

Every Galra knew about the druids’ singing.

Shiro rubbed the back of his neck again, looking down at his feet. “Sometimes the druids sing their work. Because uhm…” It stirred in his head, like a residual nausea, “The worst druid curses _can’t_ actually be spoken. Some are just” — _too depraved_ — “Well, they just have to be sung.”

Anything that demanded absolute, ugly conviction for it’s fuel. The spells whose casting twisted the soul of the caster as much as the victim. The ones that were truly, truly horrible.

Absently, Shiro noted the pit in his stomach. “Druids fill a lot of different roles for the Galra. But some of it is pretty…” Abhorrent. Unholy. Some of it could be called despicable.

Shiro hoped that was something he knew from hearsay. He really did try to hope so.

“They’re not something you should casually wish on a person.” He could admit that his words had probably been more than that tech deserved. Or, on a normal day they would have been, but Shiro’s rules tended to change when his paladins got shot.

“So.” He drummed his fingers against the steps. “That’s. That one.”  _They’ll sing of you._ He clicked his tongue once into cavernous quiet. “That’s what I said.”

The quiet got quieter.

Oh well.

“Anyways,” a change of subject was in order, here.

“So, there are other songs?” Good enough.

“Yep. Plenty.” Shiro made his voice cheerful. “They’re quite the musical people, if you can believe it.”

Lance lifted his foot up to poke Shiro in the chest. “Go ahead. Here’s the other one.”

“No, it’s true.” He made a show of shoving the boot away from him, smiling. "Sort of kills the mystique, right? Makes them less intimidating?” (Not to him, it didn’t.)

“All-singing, all-dancing. Kind of like—” A flash of insight actually managed to make him snigger. He knew they probably wouldn’t get this reference, but still, “Like the haka at an All-Blacks game.” Except evil. And horrible. And astronomically more savage and not remotely “all in good fun”… And again with the no words. And not any dancing either. With no words and no dancing, did it still count as song and dance?

Actually, when put like that, maybe it wasn’t very similar at all. Still, the spirit of the thing. That was what counted, right?

And nope. No one got the reference. Shiro gave his head a rueful shake; dirty heathens, all of them.

Oh wait, he saw Hunk smiling. Good man.

Personally, Shiro thought it was rather an apt comparison. Except in the Galra arena, it was the spectators who got to do the chanting. The combatants just stood at attention and tried to look tough (or, in Shiro’s case, just tried to look like he  _wasn’t_  scared out of his tiny human mind). Then the hymn faded, and it was on.

Maybe that was more like baseball. Like Osaka baseball. If it were bloodier. And how sad was it that, once upon a time, Osaka baseball fans had set the bar for what Shiro would have called “crazy”?

To his dismay, none of the paladins took the conversational bait. No, they still just wanted to learn more cussing. Like a bunch of teenagers (funny thing).

Their insistence made him sag a little. It was too bad; he would much rather talk about rugby (or soccer. Or basketball or baseball. Or fucking basketweaving, he wasn’t picky) than about all the oaths he’d ever had spat in his face. But, oh well.

Was that Shiro’s mantra now? ‘Oh well’?

Oh well.

Still working the knot in his shoulder, he looked up at the ceiling, waiting for the words to come to him. Shiro’s head jerked in surprise when two warm hands appeared on his back, deft fingers gently pushing his out of the way. He hadn’t heard Hunk move. He really  _was_  tired, wasn’t he?

Hunk took over and  _yep_ , good man. Definitely Shiro’s favorite paladin. Even if—okay ow,  _ow_ —even if he did massage like a meat-tenderizer. 

In the cold light of day, that was actually the best thing about a massage from Hunk. At least, Shiro thought so (he may have been alone in this opinion). He would much rather wince and cringe and  _endure_  today, if he’d hopefully feel the better for it, tomorrow. Or so he’d tell himself, as he cringed.

“There was one. I think I heard it a lot,” and he recited it. Not as much of a mouthful as the first, and it sounded less akin to a wrathful hiss. Fewer syllables. Punchier. Better for shouting in the heat of things, than for whispering whilst in the midst of eviscerating someone.

(All qualities to carefully consider, when cussing out one’s enemies. Hence Shiro’s informed choice, earlier that day.)

“Means, ‘A place for your head.’”

Once again, it didn’t seem to resonate. Lance peered at him from under a quirked eyebrow. “I assume you aren’t offering a pillow.”

“No. ‘A place for your head.’  As in, ‘I’ll cut it off and keep it with me.’”  He chuckled, then abruptly wondered if he shouldn’t chuckle. “Which, I think, is something the Galra—” his breath caught, as Hunk apparently decided Shiro didn’t need that shoulderblade anyway, “—used to do, until somewhat recently. At least, one of the others told me so.”

It might have been ironic if that other prisoner had then died by beheading. But he hadn’t. Shiro had sliced him open and spilled his guts all over the floor (and had then vomited right there in front of everyone, because the smell had been  _astonishing_ ). But once he was dead, his head had, in fact, been put up on display for a while. So there was that.

He shouldn’t be chuckling, Shiro concluded, feeling a quiet kind of horrified. He shouldn’t be talking about this with the others. Hell no, he shouldn’t. Black humor in another culture’s brutality maybe wasn’t so appropriate when said culture literally  _tried to kill you. All the time._

It might have been different if the Galra weren’t so  _close_. Talking about say, ancient humans (and even not-so-ancient, sadly) was one thing. Ancient humans and their propensity for mass executions and mutilations and life-or-death quasi-volleyball games and other anthropological phenomena. It was disturbing, but it was academic, it was a curiosity. It was easy to point and laugh at dead civilizations that couldn’t hurt you.

Lance and Hunk didn’t need to go to sleep at night, thinking of what the (very present, very real) Galra did to the people who opposed them. Keith didn’t, Pidge didn’t. 

“Maybe that’s enough— _ouch_ Hunk, what did I ever do to you?” Shiro contorted towards the floor, trying to squirm out from underneath hands that apparently thought  _getting rid of knots_ just meant  _getting rid of everything._

“Sorry.” Hunk certainly didn’t  _sound_ sorry, but Shiro made himself straighten up and sit still. Favorite paladin, he thought, with teeth-clenched sincerity.

“Nu-uh, keep going.” Pidge had a scrap of actual paper in front of her (oh, they had actual paper? Shiro wondered since when?), where she was casually jotting notes down, seeming quite unbothered. 

Really, Shiro shouldn’t be indulging this. But he huffed out a breath and tried to think. More popped into his head but they just left him wincing. He had to know at least a  _few_ that weren’t “I will inflict [various synonyms for ‘worst possible thing’] on you, you [various synonyms for ‘lowest filth that ever crawled, ate, breathed, or fucked’]!!!”

Quietly, Shiro laughed at himself. Good job at excluding all expletives,  _ever_.

Words appeared, and he spoke them before thinking them through. Then the translation followed, and he found himself uncomfortable.

“That one sounded kind of pretty.”

“Yeah.”

He shook his head. “Uhm. Given that it’s a slur against those with congenital cognitive impairment, it’s not a terribly romantic one.”

Pidge grimaced and carefully scratched out what she’d just written. Hunk tried to dig Shiro’s spine out from the rest of his back, presumably in punishment.

Okay, try again. Something that wasn’t “Die in a fire”-esque or “Fuck your mother”-esque, but also wasn’t “Uniparental disomy” turned into an insult (apparently, it was less variable a condition for Galra than it was back on Earth).

How about—No.

Ten mothered son of—That one was just a mess.

Oh, there was—No. Just no.

There was one that was more or less a simple, “Eat shit and die.” Except it was specifically your youngest sister’s shit, under circumstances of—… Shudder, and also no.

How many of these did he  _have_?

What was essentially gang rape in front of—Absolutely not.

Oh, that one involved children. Moving on. Right now, moving on.  _Jesus_

There was one that was basically “Whore’s whore.” Now, that was just uninventive. They could do better than that, back on Earth.

There were some that insulted ancestors. Eh, the Chinese and Arabs both had that. Spain had it, the Americas had it. Everybody had it. 

The standard promise to eat your liver(s, depending on you). Boring.

Domestic beasts and what to do with them. Prosaic.

What else?

Shiro drummed his fingers on the steps. What else did they have? Hunk helped him think, by trying to pry the muscle off his bones ( _favorite paladin_ ).

Well actually, there were several that compared the recipient to a particular type of louse. Or singled out the recipient for infestation therewith. It figured the Galra would have lice-based curses, what with all that fur. All the technological advancement in the universe, but evolution marches forward, quarters are still close, and fur is still fur.

So yeah,  _lice_. And words about lice. A fair bit more extensive than Earth’s “lousy,” which had lost all meaning ages ago.

Shiro suddenly had to stop because all at once he felt hands on his head. And a knife that scraped his face and scalp bloody while he dared not move. Scoffed instructions not to take all of it, and a fine powder being roughly worked into what hair he had left, stinging where it met broken skin.

It might have gotten enough traction to drag him down but someone shoved a glass of nunvill straight under his nose, and Shiro yanked his head away so fast he may have strained something. It worked wonders. Like a cracked ammonia cap.

… If ammonia smelled like athlete’s foot and boiling hotdogs. Instead of ammonia.

Unwashed animal, the Galra had in abundance (Shiro would know, he’d been one). And some of the other prisoners—he’d remembered the hard way, not long ago—had had bodily secretions that must have contained, funny enough (not funny), ammonia.

However, essence of beef frank was a special kind of nasty the Galra hadn’t yet managed.

Nunvill. He’d have to remember that. Honestly, he should have thought of it before. Good thing to have on hand, when trying  _not_  to figure out if he knew what infestation with alien parasites felt like.

Aaaaaand now his skin was crawling and he itched all over. Great. Thank you.

Shiro breathed in deliberately deep (oh  _ew_ ) and blinked his watering eyes down at the hand holding the glass. He followed the arm all the way back to a cheeky-looking Blue Paladin.

Where would he ever be without these guys?

Not pausing to make a thing of it (what was Lance even  _doing_  with that? He didn’t…  _drink_  it. Did he?), Lance just asked him, “Know any others? Or are you gonna start just making them up?”

Shiro chuckled, a little unsteadily. “I could. They’d probably come out better.” He laughed again, and he liked to think it sounded a bit heartier. Behind him, Hunk started up on his back again, warm ham-hands that could probably break Shiro in two landing suspiciously softer and gentler than they had before. Not for the first time, Shiro marveled at the kindhearted patience of this crew of dorks he’d been so privileged to work with.

His smile quirked upward, sitting crooked, “The Galra just… aren’t really ‘Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries’ kind of people.”

That got them going. The material was over a century old, but it got them going, surely enough. Which meant that Shiro could sit back and quit being the focus of attention, while they entertained themselves for a few moments. Just let them work themselves into their own skit-quoting, silly-walking, upperclass-twit-of-the-year-ing frenzy, while he just put his feet up and watched the carnage.

But Pidge (like a dog with a bone, that one) didn’t seem to want to indulge him. She wanted to hear more.

This time however, he shook his head. “No,” he smiled, “No, I don’t think so.” It hadn’t been the best idea to begin with. Without preamble, Shiro reached forward and swiped her notes away from her. In his Galra hand, they started to smoke and curl in at the edges.

Pidge barely had time for a “Hey, what the fuck?” before they were already blackened enough to be illegible.

Deactivating his prosthesis, he gave her his least impressed look.

Conversation meandered after that. At some point, Hunk clapped Shiro on the shoulder and announced that he was done destroying him for his own good. At another point, Shiro was reminded to re-flag his mental note, re: birthdays. Pidge found a reason to roll her eyes at everybody at least once. Keith had a couple inane things to say, as helpfully (if somewhat tastelessly) conveyed by Lance. But he wasn’t breathing weird— _yes, thank you, Pidge._  And Hunk would say he looked healthier (both trustworthy metrics, to be sure). He was due out in just under an hour, so Shiro headed over to a corner, to try and catch a power nap in the meantime. With the lights all on, and all the others still talking within earshot, he might actually manage it.

“Actually. Shiro?”

He turned back.

“Sooooo… did I hear right?” Looking fairly innocent, Hunk actually sent finger-guns at him, “All-Blacks fan?”

Shiro’s face split into a grin. And fuck naps.

This, he could talk about.

* * *

When next they were out, and Pidge tangled up and zapped the hell out of two soldiers at once, and Shiro got to hear her spit out, “Elvish mark’d, abortive, rooting hogs!” he didn’t bother to muffle his laugh. She’d known he’d be listening.

 

**Author's Note:**

> —Because y'know... violent, nasty curses just aren’t always as funny when people really mean it.  
> Funny thing: The majority of insults mentioned here are taken straight from Earth (one of them is actually stupidly longer than what I included, and is therefore hilarious. Ask either me or probably the Internet if curious).  
> Pertinent thing: Cool guys play rugby. And soccer. And yeah, basketball sometimes. And—this list could get long. The quasi-distant future still has rugby! I say so!  
> Sport thing: I’m willing to bet most of you already know Osaka’s famous baseball. The fans are a very special breed of _Keeeerazy_. I'm not even that nuts about baseball, but I went to a game there in 2012 and it was my zaniest live sports experience ever.  
>  Better sport thing: Some of you might not know what the haka is. And if you don’t... then... then... [sputters]. Then you make me sad. Go ask the Internet, because your life is only as rich as you care to make it.  
> Beautiful multi-faceted Maori cultural construct (Maori, and several other islanders actually) that runs the gamut aaaaaaallll the way from “Stand up, grow up, embrace all the beauty of life” (that’s most of them) to “I'mma kill you, then I'mma rape your sheep and eat your wimmens... and thereafter, also win this rugby match. That too, also yes.” (That’s the All-Blacks one. Especially when playing the French. ^_^)  
> In this, Shiro is probably not referring to the cultural observance. His loss.  
> Final thing: And while Shakespeare is the best English wordsmith ever and DOES have the best insults, please don't ever casually call anyone "elvish mark'd" because Williams syndrome is a thing, and that's rude.


End file.
